Tag Archives: BDSM

Back 6 years ago when I was a submissive to my Sexual Sadist Narcopath Dom, I remember standing in front of the sink one evening, washing the dishes from dinner. All of a sudden, I felt his hands from behind around my neck squeezing so hard I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. Instinctively, frantically, I tried my best to pry his hands off, to no avail. My vision began to see little stars in the periphery, twinkling. I was terrified that I was going to suffocate in that damned kitchen. Then without warning he simply let go.

As soon as I could catch my breath I asked, “why in the hell did you do that?!!”

He replied cooly,”to remind you who is in charge.”

I was silently horrified.

Much later that evening, we were watching television in the bedroom and he asked me to get him a drink. I of course obliged. Upon my return, I set the drink down and I began massaging his back.

I sat behind him and ran my fingers through his hair and tossled it about the way he loved so much. I began massaging his traps firmly and then made my way slowly up to his neck. I let my hands slip around his neck and I began to squeeze as hard as I possibly could, until I could hear him gasp and choke. He in turn tried to pry my hands off.

I leaned close and whispered in his ear and said , “if you ever put your hands around my neck again like that, I will fucking end you….. do you understand? I waited another 15 seconds or so. Until he murmured “Yezz.” Then I let go.

You may think that’s the end of the story but of course not. I received an ass-whooping so severe as soon as he could get a hold of me, that I couldn’t sit down for a good two days. But I still smile as I type this because it was ever so worth it.

Clue, don’t cha know. I should get a clue by now. That fantasy is way better than reality. Always.

I have been in a relationship with a vanilla man for 5 years now. I know that it’s “healthy” for me. But I’d be a liar to say I don’t miss the intensity of what I had living the D/s lifestyle. I was never in a 24/7 TPE. Pfffft. I was too feisty to submit beyond the bedroom. I have pangs to return to kink from time to time, especially when I read others’ blogs. It brings back memories. Some good, some not. I still make my pilgrimage back to my blog on alt.com to see what my buddies are up to, even if they don’t see me looking.

I think the most fucked up thing I ever let my Dominant do was to shove his Walther PPK .32 caliber handgun in my pussy.

When I showed Lee the photos of that, she didn’t even blink. She was more interested in how I felt about sharing this with her. Typical. It’s always ‘how do I feel’. Hell I don’t have feelings much these days, I feel empty.

What’s to feel about it? It’s a photo. I have many more in the same vein. She asks the wrong sorts of questions, it seems. Or maybe I’m the one just not saying enough. For instance I never told her that I recently called my former Dominant.

Two steps forward and ten-thousand light years back……least that’s how it feels tonight.

— adj
1. another word for illegal
2. not approved by common custom, rule, or standard: illicit sexual relations For the purposes of this post I am using the latter definition.

The sexual abuse I had endured as a child left me so terrified of my own sexuality and of men that it left me completely disconnected with and at times dissociated from my body. When I finally ended up dating it was nearly all abusive men, active substance using men, and narcissistic men. It seemed strange that over and over it was the wrong guys. Bad luck I thought.

Why couldn’t I have been the girl who got asked out by some nice fellow and progressed in a slow and steady fashion within a relationship? I’ll tell you why because I was a victim of incest at the hands of my brother and it had been going on since I was 8 and it didn’t end until I was in the middle of high school. And by then I wanted to commit suicide.

So when I grew up, I had become THAT girl. You know the one that tells my date my entire life story over a few drinks in under ten minutes and then let’s him finger fuck me underneath the table at the restaurant, while telling him as he is doing this, that I want to take things slow.

Or I have a guy friend who says he’s hoping my recovery moves more quickly because he’d like to fuck me. After a tongue lashing from me, on how I value our friendship, and that we’ve been friends for so long and he can’t do this! I climb right up on his lap, straddle him, kiss him, gently bite his nipples, rhythmically move my hips over his pelvis while my body betrays me as I get wet under my skirt all over his jeans.

Oh wait, here comes the shame again, along with guilt. Why couldn’t I have just tongue lashed him and left it there? What’s wrong with me.

After restaurant guy finger fucked me, I hid in my apartment for weeks every time he rang my buzzer. So much shame. Eventually he didn’t come around anymore, Thank God. When you couple shame and guilt, this wedding along with a lack of ability to dialogue about your emotions… You spend your life either running or hiding. Building thicker walls to keep people out so you don’t get hurt again.

My shrink says lots of incest survivors are at higher risk for developing sexual problems and problems with setting adequate boundaries overall. When your body is not your own as a child, because your brother has access to you 24/7 you don’t ever have a “no,” to his sexual advances. You can never escape.

As an adult it was quite an easy transition for me to slide into the worldofBDSM, fetish, and kink .

I was too busy figuring out how to stay alive amidst trauma in childhood and adolescence and I never learned the healthy boundaries needed to navigate adulthood. So the cycle repeated.

I’m a walking talking paradox. I really DO want to be the girl who goes slow and have healthy boundaries AND also, I don’t. I crave that which is taboo, and sometimes I recoil from that which is taboo.

I think back to Stanley Kubrick’s film, A Clockwork Orange. If I’m wired to respond sexually in a maladaptive and deviant way for so long, what are the odds I can re-wire now? There is a saying that once a cucumber has become a pickle, it can never go back to being a cucumber again.

Several years after I was out of the relationship with my ex, my mother received a phone call from a detective in Boston wanting to know if I was alive.

My mom told him that I was. He asked when the last time we had spoken. She had told him it was about a week prior. He explained that he needed confirmation from me that I was indeed alive and to contact him at the phone number he provided. He explained that my ex had tried to developed a photograph at a local pharmacy which depicted a naked woman hanging from a tree by her wrists, bound, blind-folded, ball-gagged, and severely beaten. He claimed that the woman in the photo was me.

My mother was of course shocked but told me to call the detective. I did not believe it was the cops, I thought it may have been him posing as a police officer. Instead, I called the police department’s main number myself and asked for said detective. The story checked out. I was asked to come down to the police station to verify who I was, and that I was alive.

I took the ride and met the detective. He showed me the photo and I verified my identity. He asked me if what happened in the photo was consensual. I said that it was. The detective seemed taken aback. I did tell him at that time I wanted the photo destroyed and that was confused to me as to why my ex had been developing it in the first place since it had been years since we had split up.

The officer assured me that he would make sure he had put the fear of God in my ex about distributing a photo like this and the implications it would have for him if he didn’t destroy it.

As to why my ex had kept it all those years? Like many Sociopaths, particularly those who are sexual sadists, most acquire trophies from their victims. This photo of me may be a trophy of his handiwork. He can re-live that day over and over again by looking at it.

That was the last I heard of him until two months ago when I received a Facebook friends request, which I promptly deleted.

I often read other blogs here on WordPress of both victims of Narcissism as well as a few Narcissists themselves. I have been watching Sam Vatkin’s videos on YouTube for years. I also have been watching Richard Grannon on YouTube for near as long as well.

It would seem that I am doing a good job of staying no contact, despite the two hoovers he sent my way. One came 1.5 years after he discarded me, the other five years later. I am left with a morbid curiosity as to why he ever hoovered me so far out after discarding me. I may well never know.

What I do know is that there is life after a Narcissistic Sociopath. I eventually did go on to meet a new guy. It’s only when one door closes they say that another can open.

The last thing I asked him as I carried my belongings to my car from his house was,

” So you would rather choose a life of paying for prostitutes, going to gangbangs, having NSA sex with people from craigslist, and swinging, than being with me?”

To which he answered,

” well I’m not sure I’d phrase it that way but yes .”

I’m not sure how many weeks it was after I pulled out of his driveway that I just couldn’t get him off my mind. Good, bad, or worse you don’t spend five years with someone and then have it end just in a blink without being in a crap ton of pain. It’s a loss. Even if it was fake on his end, all the feelings had been real on mine.

He hadn’t called me, hadn’t emailed me, hadn’t texted me. It was like I had never even existed. It was like all the ‘I love you’s he had told me was a lie. My mind could understand but my heart wouldn’t accept the truth.

I wanted answers as to why….closure, I desperately needed closure so I sent him an email. I asked him if he missed me and if he ever thought about me.

He did respond and said he would always love me but that I just didn’t fit into his life at this time.

I wrote back again asking if we could just be friends. If I would be able to just clean his house? Mow his lawn? I couldn’t imagine not having some small piece of him . The gaping hole in my heart that he occupied was just too deep. I didn’t feel strong enough to survive the loss.

He answered without hesitation, no.

When I wrote back insisting that I must mean something to him? He wrote back that I was becoming a nuisance and that if I ever contacted him again that he would call the police.

I was horrified. Felt betrayed. Five years of caring for him. What happened to him hanging on my every word so early on? What happened to him teaching me every sexual move I knew?

At first I went numb. Then after weeks of just lying round in my pajamas like a uniform, I did a google search for support groups for women who had been victims of abuse. I put in keywords silence, crazy, mood swings, abuse, sex addiction and found Narcissism.

Then I dig further and found online support groups through Facebook and joined. They don’t show up in your public groups list so your friends and family don’t know your in them. There forums you can read others stories or situations anonymously or also comment and give feedback. You can also write your own story and/ or situation and receive feedback. I felt so much less isolated.

I also joined phone line support groups. This proved invaluable. I phoned into meetings a few times a week. Talking with other women who experienced the same thing. Different keypads on the phone muted and un-muted the phone and the meetings were highly structured so that one person spoke at a time. At the end everyone got a chance to speak.

Every woman that I grew to know on those phone lines told me that he would come back for me one day. They said, “they all do.” They all used their term “Hoover.”

Hoovering is a technique that is named after the Hoover vacuum cleaner, and is used by Narcissists (and other manipulative people) in order to “suck” their victims back into a relationship with them. Hoovering is often done after the silent treatment is given or the victim has left them.

I protested,” not this one he threatened the police on me and apparently made good on it, my local police notified me that although I wasn’t in any trouble, I was asked not to contact him again. That it wasn’t a restraining order but that it would be considered harassment if I did.”

The women all insisted, “he’ll be back.”

And they were right.

_______________________________

A year and a half later, it was Valentines Day evening. I wasn’t doing much. Watching TV, when I heard a knock at the door. I pulled the door open and there he stood.

My heart dropped.

I never ever expected to see him again. He had a box of chocolates and a card in hand. I had done a ton of recovery work but nothing had prepared me for this.

“Well aren’t you going to invite me in?”

As if reflexively, by some unseen force I opened the door. It felt that way, because I felt afraid and yet I also felt hypnotized by him, unable to stop myself from opening the door. There’s something powerful that is created in these trauma bonds they work so hard that form with you in the beginning.

Trauma bondwas a term first created by Patrick Carnes used to describe “the misuse of fear, excitement, sexual feelings, and sexual physiology to entangle another person.”

A simpler and more encompassing definition is that traumatic bonding is:

“a strong emotional attachment between an abused person and his or her abuser, formed as a result of the cycle of violence.”

I’m pretty sure that Dracula was a supernatural Narcissist who used trauma bonds on his bitches too.

After I let him in, he initially hugged me but quickly his hands fell and tried to put the moves on me and I realized what he had come for. All the recovery work was not lost. I quickly led him to the door, thanked him for the chocolate, and shut and locked it after he left. He looked quite surprised. I even surprised myself. I threw the chocolate out later. My body did respond to him that night but I never said a thing and I never have.

Body Betrayal

When people survive repeated sexual assault or abuse, their body often betrays them by responding to their abuser by getting aroused and/or with an orgasm. Researchers David Finkelhor and Kersti Yllo found that some women in their study reported that they had experienced pleasure during the rapes, particularly in cases of repeated rape. They write that this appears to be an “adaptive response” that makes repeated rape more survivable (1985 photo pg 125).

Asking him to leave, rather than falling for the trap of thinking that because my body was responding that it meant somehow we were “meant to be.” This was a huge moment of success for me. I had ushered out the monster and ushered in, the infancy of self-care.

Not long after he shared his fantasy of his torture chamber with me. I was in my home and received a call from him. He told me, “you should really check the unsolved homicides from 1995-1997 in Boston.

So indeed I logged onto the Massachusetts State police website and told him, “I see X amt. of victims here. They are both male and female. They have a wide range in age and ethnicity. The manner of death varies as does both the manner and means in which their bodies were disposed.”

I continued, “I’m not seeing any identifiable pattern of behavior that would tie any of these victims together.”

He replied, ” No, that’s right you don’t.”

So I questioned, “why did you have me go check on these specific unsolved homicides from these 2 years?“

Nothing

“Did you have anything to do with these?”

Silence

Then…..quiet laughter.

Then, “goodnight Lexi.”

Then the phone hung up.

The following day I phoned the Massachusetts State Police and asked to speak to a detective. I ended up talking to one and told my entire story. Highlighting his sexual sadism and impulsive violence, the photographs I saw of the pummeled, black and blue woman, on through to the animal killing story, to the sexual fantasy of wanting to abduct a teen.

Sadly, the detective thought that my claim was outrageous, my credibility nill , and he consequently dismissed me as a crackpot. He told me he would “ keep a report on file.” This I knew to be a lie. I felt like this sexual sadist was above the law. I was pretty sure he believed he was above the law too.

I felt hopeless that day, but things were about to change and a Higher law would set things right.

At some point I thought I would try and get into his mind to see what sort of pathology (or not) may exist. I held a college degree in Psychology and had worked in the field for several years. Beyond the obvious of his sexual sadism, and catching in numerous lies, his words and actions weren’t shoring up. Ever. I felt crazy all the time but my gut told me something deeper was wrong. I needed proof that I wasn’t crazy, that there was something there underneath his mostly charming personality.

I knew I would be unable to be objective. However, I believed I would be able to keep a good “veneer” on not showing my shock if he divulged something that upset me. I also knew that if he got the first hint that I was off put by his disclosures, he would not only shut down but that he would also retaliate against me.

Risky for me indeed, yet things were not adding up and I wanted answers. I felt this sort of going “under cover” with him was the only way I would get my answers. Unless you a person with a burning sense of inquisitiveness, where you are almost “driven” to be analytical? None of the reasons I needed to know, will ever make sense to you. Don’t try to understand. Because by this point dear reader if you can’t understand why I needed answers, you have probably already written me off in the “crazy she should have just left” bin long ago.

I began probing his sexual fantasies fully expecting to hear more tales of sadism. I lied to gain his trust that I too, had a few sadistic fantasies but had repressed mine. Mine however were not sexual. They centered around retaliatory themes about bullying done to me in high school and by the abuse I had endured as a small child.

It worked.

He began trusting me and opening up. I never imagined what he was to say.

He envisioned enticing a young 17-18 year old female student into his van. My first question, “how would you get her in?”

He answered, “well that’s where you would come in. Teen girls are much more likely to come near a van when you are asking for directions if a woman is present and asking.”

I let out a sigh…..

“So, I would need you to help me lure her near the van.” He quipped.

“Okay” I listened.

“Then I would run around and grab her and put the chloroform napkin over her mouth and you would help me shove her into my van, then we drive off.”

I’m quite certain I had to take great effort to mask the absolute horror as it was coursing through me as I was listening to him say the word chloroform. My heart was racing. I felt sweat pooling everywhere. I knew if I bailed now I would never know who was in front of me, nor how much danger I was in. I pressed on.

“Okay, so what would we do with her once we have her in the van?”

“Well the van would be soundproof and she’d be chained to the floor by bolts on her legs and I’d bind her arms making her easier to control later. I wouldn’t take any chances.” he explained

“Right, not after all that trouble.” I said.

“Then we’d take her back to my torture chamber. I haven’t built it yet. But I can tell you it would be awesome, state of the art. All stainless steel. Drainage grate in the floors that bodily fluids could be washed down. . All kinds of hooks overhead to hang implements. Large stainless steel hospital bed. You get the idea. This way you can bleach and clean everything so there’s no trace of anything. Soundproof. “

He was so excited talking about it all. It was chilling.

“So what would you do with her first?” I asked.

“Ha ha ha ha ha!!!!! Other that the obvious of taking her several different ways?”

“Yeah right.”

“I’d pull her nipples off with a pair of needle nose pliers.”

Once again I struggled to maintain composure and made sure not to wait too long without commenting I didn’t want him to think I was faking being into his sick fantasy. The best I could muster was to reality check him.

“If you did that, she would likely go into shock and wouldn’t be alive much longer after that.”

He chuckled, “Smart. I knew there was a reason I keep you around.”

He spoke about various torture methods too gruesome to speak of here. I can say that it involved torturing the girl til she passed out, waking her up with ammonia and other means and then repeating this until she died. Then disposing of her body in plastic bags in a river. This was a turning point for me.

This was far beyond the scope of anything I had ever personally encountered. Only the sort of thing one reads in text books or watches on shows like Forensic Files, where the girlfriend/wife/victim ends up dead.

Of course I knew he might be into S&M when he asked me at the beginning of our relationship to enter into a BDSM contract. I was walking in with my eyes wide open. He said that the use of kink would build trust and bring us closer. Closer than vanilla couples. That, appealed to me after having been wounded by a would-be good guy in a “normal” long-term relationship. He said it may involve some light bondage and pain but nothing that I wasn’t comfortable with. That we would never do anything that I wasn’t comfortable with. Which all felt like I was going to be in charge of what going on.

The oldest trick in the book: The illusion of control.

I was green at that time and knew nothing of this subculture. I didn’t know jargon like: SSC (Safe, Sane, and Consensual) and RACK (Risk Aware Consensual Kink). He was certainly not going to tell me either. That was the point, to leave me in the dark and to leave him with all the knowledge and power.

In due course I did learn that he like to inflict pain. He like to spank using his hand. He like to use a paddle, crop, flogger, whip, cane, nipple clamps, hot wax, Ben Wa balls, anal plugs, ropes, blindfolds, handcuffs, ball gags, whatever the hell he wanted. Bloody yes he had all the tools a good dominant doing BDSM would have in his bag-o-tricks.

He asked me one night to go pick out some porn to watch for the evening. This was awkward for me because at this point in my life, I had only seen maybe a few porn movies period. He had an extensive porn library. There was very little of what you could consider soft-porn. You know, mom getting pile-driven, doggy style in the bedroom. I mean there was one like that and maybe two MILF type genre CD’s. But the vast majority were really fucked up stuff. Titles like: Granny’s Gone Wild: depicting elderly women getting poked, Transsexual 3-way Fun, Gangbangs 3, Incest Fantasies, Down on the Farm, Raw Pussy Hardcore Beatdown, Teens Bound 2 Cum, Forced Fucking, Hardcore Bitches-n-Pets. I was in absolute shock but tried to look outwardly like I was okay with this. I mean, I was such a people pleaser at this point in my life, God forbid, I might offend him by looking like the wind just got knocked out of me.

After viewing the titles, I deferred to him to pick one out and he picked one of the more violent films. We sat naked in bed and began to watch. The movie began with the young girl literally being first verbally degraded by two men. I cringed. Then it escalated with her being slapped across her face numerous times. He sat motionless. Then in the film they began beating her down. Kicking her a few times while she begged for them to stop. More intense slapping, choking her, all the while degrading her verbally. I watched in horror, not just at the film but more so at him. For as he watched, he quickly got an erection with each scream she made, each plead, as the violence being inflicted upon her increased, the harder he got. Conversely, I was so calcified from watching as if reflexively, I put my bathrobe on.

I realised at that moment, I was sitting in bed with a sexual sadist.

Yet, my emotional connection to him wouldn’t allow me believe that. I wanted to believe that this was just some sort of small piece of him. That this couldn’t possibly real. Because he had the capability of being sweet. Gentle. Caring. This, what I was taking in right here, right now was incompatible with that sweet man. This was a dichotomy. One that I could not explain. So I stuffed it away down into the recesses of myself where I could not even hear my own thoughts.

However, somewhere in me, deep down, I knew that the dream I had with this man of marriage, a home, raising kids, and a dog named Scruffy was all about to go right out the proverbial window.

It smelled of mold and mildew down there. The air always had a cold damp quality to it. Because of my asthma, I had never liked going there. All the walls were entirely lined with neat rows of shelf-stable food. Enough for a small family to survive an Armageddon. I always thought it strange. Then there was the safe. The massive safe hidden behind the stairs. Standing at well over 6 feet high, it was large enough with which to store a body.

All throughout our relationship, I was never permitted there while he opened the safe. It was always one of those unspoken rules. The mystery that shrouded the safe added to my wonderment of its contents. The only light was from the lone 60-watt bulb dangling from the ceiling. There were two dirty tiny windows meant only to allow light and ventilation. They were both sealed tightly shut.

He was cooking spaghetti and meatballs that night and asked me to run down to grab a can of diced tomatoes. I headed downstairs and began searching the shelves for the requested item.

Suddenly I heard him shut the basement door and then slide the metal chain latch over. Then I heard his footsteps on the floorboards above me trail away.

I bolted up the stairs heart racing and called out his name all the while feverishly trying the door handle in hopes it would open. It did not.

He did not answer.

It hit me then. The sheer and absolute terror. The blood in my veins ran cold as I realized I have become entombed in this cellar.

I yelled at the top of my lungs and began pounding my fists on the door, “PLEASE!!! PLEASE!!! I’m begging you!!Let me out!!!”

Still no answer.

More screaming, more begging, more pounding on the door,” I’m BEGGING you to please come back, I don’t have my inhaler, please let me out!!”

Silence.

My tears turned to full on sobs realizing I would might never get out of this basement. My mind began to race: Would I die from an asthma attack and suffocate or would I die from thirst/dehydration since there was only food down here but no water. That I would never get to say goodbye to my family….

Seemed like seconds turned to minutes and each minute felt like an eternity.

When suddenly I heard his footsteps again and then the metal chain sliding to unlock the door.

“Why are you crying?” he laughed, “You didn’t think I was going to leave you down there forever did you?” He chuckled,” I was just fooling around with you.” He pulled me in close and hugged me. I felt relief, repulsion, anger…. The Stockholm Syndrome with which I was quite familiar, was unfolding right in front of me. I simply couldn’t see it.

I don’t know how long I was actually locked down there. It was long enough to know that I was not dealing with a garden variety “Daddy-Dom” into some weekend kink.

In retrospect, I think that’s why I stayed. He intrigued me. I thought with all my psychological acumen, I’d find out what made him tick. But by then it was nearly too late for that. For what I’ve failed to mention….was that by then I was in love with the monster.